


Decomposition

by 217



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, I don't really know or care, Negan Kills Glenn Rhee, No substance, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 01:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11220732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/217/pseuds/217
Summary: Negan's thoughts while Lucille claims another victim. Negan x OC





	Decomposition

**A/N Warning. Suicide. Lyric credit to Cattle Decapitation.**

* * *

"You can breathe… you can blink… you can cry… you're **all** going to be doing that." You know the difference between an undead fuck's brains and a living person's brain at the hand of Lucille? Not a goddamn thing. You know the difference between an undead fuck's brains and a living person's brain after the trigger is pulled? **Everything**. I know this, because it's the catalyst that made me who I am. Every time I take someone's life, I'm reminded of the last words Red said to me.

_Humanity is the cancer, Negan, and I want out._

Most people beg for their lives in this position. Like this sorry fuck as Lucille suspends over his head. Not her. Red begged for me to end hers. I remember that day vividly. It haunts my dreams. It disrupts my thoughts. It. Never. Goes. Away.

I'm brought back to that day in an instant. I can even smell the sweat on my brow from exhaustion.

My footing leaves impressions in the small grass. Impressions because I've given up running. What's the point of fighting when we know the inevitable? You die. You turn. I used to think it was bullshit until I watched it happened. The kid couldn't have been over twelve. Used the tire iron in the back of my car to put him down.

**Put him down.**

**Animals.**

That's about as best as you can hope for. Better than being bit and waiting for the sickness to take its course.

**Not me.**

**Not like that.**

I never used a gun before the outbreak. The metal is still foreign in my hands. I'm not even confident of which body I took it off of. Everyone I fucking know is gone. I'm alone because people can't stop fucking dying.

There is this one group I travel with for a bit. Until the undead claims them all. "Fuck you," I yell in one of their faces. "You're bit?! Fuck you! Go fucking fuck yourself up your fucking ass, you fuck. I'm sick to death of this shit! You ran and let your father die. You fucking flipped your shit in there… and let your fucking brother die, and for all your trouble… you get to fucking die. I'm sick of you people. You're all fucking weak. All you ever do is die! So go die."

Once again, I'm alone. Desperate. My body is exhausted. I'm considering another way out as I run my thumb over the metal of my gun. There's usually that little voice that people have that talk them out of shit. Mine? White fucking noise. I'm done with this shit and press the tip to my temple. The clicking of an empty gun startles me. I know for certain I didn't pull this goddamn trigger, but I didn't hallucinate that sound either. Am I that goddamn delirious? Have I been out here so long that I'm starting to create my own world? I always thought it would be a little more palatable. My ears prick up at a disembodied whimper. To my left kneels a girl. Now I have confirmation I haven't lost it just yet when the gun is released to the earth.

Red hair cascades down her face until her chin is brought up. Hollow sizable brown eyes swell with tears. She shakes her head in defeat when she can't pull the trigger like she wasn't already dead before the outbreak.

"Maybe it ain't your time, Red," I smirk like I wasn't just doing the same goddamn thing. "Wanna tag along with me?" I lunge forward and shove the gun from her hand when she tries again. This time, it really would have gone off, and barely misses her head. It bursts her ear drum. Blood trickles down her pale skin. I hold my bandana up to her ear to help pool the blood in exchange for her gun. Maybe I'll hold onto this for now.

Every time I ask her name, she walks faster. "That's fine, you know. I can just keep calling you Red." She is extremely protective over me, saving my ass more times that I care to admit for pride sake. Yet, I often wonder if it's because she can put herself in harm's way and let other's do what she can't. Red comes across as so goddamn unwelcoming, but I know it's bullshit. It's actually rather intimidating to others at times, yet deep down she's just searching for validation that she matters.

Red always refuses my advances but I'm starting to think it's because she has serious intimacy issues. Anytime someone, me included, accidentally comes in contact with her skin, she runs her thumbs against her fingers like a nervous tic. Here's someone that wants to be loved but can't be accepting of it.

In the three months I've known her, she's never acknowledged me except for tonight. It's when I ask if she's cold and I'm given a nod in return. I don't know how to provide heat for her other than my body against hers which is met with extreme opposition.

She huddles close to the corner, but not before snapping a glare towards me over her shoulder.

"What did they do to make you this way?" Any progression we've made, if you even want to call it that, is ruined. I thought maybe she's as unapproachable as everyone else until a month later.

When scavenging one of the stores for winter clothes, I find a mannequin in a coat I bought Lucille for her birthday. I never had a chance to give it to her before I lost her. In the middle of this store, I break down in the most undignified way. Man tears and snot running down my face. Pathetic. When something touches my back, I'm quick to unsheathe my knife and I almost give Red that ticket out of this world but stop myself millimeters from her forehead. She's the last person that I'd expect to comfort me. It means so fucking much. I'm not deserving of it just because she feels guilty seeing a grown man fucking lose his shit. Her touch feels so goddamn good when her fingers graze my cheek. Maybe because it's forbidden. Maybe because it's only reserved for me. I know she's hurting, too. I want to be that pillar of strength for her. Someone she can come to when she's feeling vulnerable. I've already shown her a side of me that not even Lucille knew.

This fragile innocence we have finally becomes something more one night when I take hers against the display case in the store we're squatting in. I'm not looking for a connection with someone, I just want to shoot my load into something warm, yet I find it in her.

When I wake up, she's not by my side. Fearful I've given her some type of panic attack, I start to search for her and find her in the spot we first met. "Red? Come back inside, it's cold."

"Humanity is the cancer, Negan, and I want out." Without warning, a bullet pierces her skull and it bursts the back of her head open from the pressure. Red hair intertwines with blood as it flows seamlessly after her lifeless body hits the ground.

"Red?" I choke expecting a response. I wish I would had known her first words would be her last. Maybe I wouldn't have tried so hard to get her to say something. I sift through chunks of brain and skull as if I expect to put her back together. To fix for her physically what I never could mentally. "I'm sorry," I wince, purging my tears with the crook of my elbow.

I mark her grave with two sticks in a cross bound together with her red scarf. Before I can bring myself to leave, I retrieve the scarf and pocket it, using one of my bandanas to bind it with instead. It's still stained with her blood from her busted ear drum. "You deserved better."

My snivels are replaced with the ones coming from Rick's men and now I'm back in this shit fuck reality. I pivot on my dominant leg, starting for the truck. "Welcome to a brand new beginning, you sorry fucks," I announce to Rick's men. Lucille drips red on the worn rusted space where the truck floor mat is no more.

_Humanity is the cancer, Negan, and I want out._

Red. Redrum. Murder. Red.

"Sir, you ok?"

"Do you know what decomposition is?"

"Is this a test?"

"Answer the goddamn question."

"It's like rot. Decay."

"Wrong. Decomposition is an exhibition of life that springs from tragedy. Drive."


End file.
